Contemplating Freedom
by thisislandgirl
Summary: A morning ritual of quiet contemplation. Would he ever have the guts to pull the trigger?  Mind the rating dark thoughtssuicide, possible spoilersbeware


**Contemplating Freedom**

**Fandom/Character:** CSI/Nick Stokes

**Rating: R**

**Prompt: **Suicide

**Warnings:** mind the prompt, dark thoughts, possible spoilers (if you look)

**Disclaimer:** I hold no rights to anything recognizable characters, situations, or places. It's just fiction.

**Summary:** A morning ritual of quiet contemplation. Would he ever have the guts to pull the trigger?

Sneakers slapping out a soothing, steady beat like that of his heart on the rain cooled pavement in the early light of morning. That's what he lived for these days. These small moments of reflection and freedom, where there were no expectations, no boundaries and chains, where there was nothing but he wanted to exist. Today he switched off his iPod, opting for the natural music that the waking world created rather than of guitars and heartache. He had enough of those for a lifetime.

He never had a planned destination, but somehow he ended up in the same spot every morning. The fountains weren't on this early, the water placid and calm in the pink light of dawn. Slowing to a halt, he grasped onto the railing and sucked in a large gulp of air, enjoying the delicious pain as the cool air sliced through his lungs. His heart thundered against his ribs, resounding in his ears like a timpani in a concert hall shouting 'I'm alive'.

And he was, wasn't he? Alive. Breathing. Functioning. He was still kickin' after all he had endured. At least he was physically.

Leaning folded arms up against the railing, Nick propped his chin on his hands and gazed unseeingly at the water, yet another thing he seemed to do every morning. His contemplation of freedom, in a way. The fountain waters weren't deep enough to set him free, but they were symbolic, a sign of the freedom he could have.

The weight of his sidearm resting in the waistband of his shorts beckoned his attention. And just like every other morning, he pulled it out and stared at it. Fingers caressed the trigger that could grant him freedom before they pulled back the slide, a bullet slipping into the chamber with a definitive click.

How many times in his life had he stared down the barrel of a gun thinking it would be the last thing he saw? And how many times had he contemplated what that barrel could give him in the end? They about balanced each other out now, Nick thought as he turned the gun over in his hand, long, sure fingers gripping it, testing out its familiar weight.

Assurance. Confidence. Freedom. That's what it gave him.

He should have died, numerous times in his short 30 some years on the earth. He knew no one could come close to understanding these secrets haunting his soul, but the team would come closer than his family. Would he be missed? What would his parents think? Would they be disappointed that he could handle everything? How would his nieces and nephews remember him? As the fun uncle that played with them at the ranch? Or as poor uncle Nicky who failed? Would his brother and sisters grieve for his lost soul? Or would they never speak of him again?

Would Grissom weep at his funeral, wondering just what could have been done to save him? Would Warrick curse his name for being a coward and not asking for their help? How would Greg take it, would he be lost? Would guilt find Catherine because she held the key, knowing more of his secrets than anyone else? What would Sara think after all their discussions about meaningless deaths? Would Brass be able to keep the team together, or would they all fall apart?

He knew the answers to his questions were always 'yes'. Yes, they would miss him. Yes, they would wonder and curse him for being stubborn. And yeah, they would remember him through both his good times and his bad. And yeah, things would change, maybe evening ending the team.

And that's why he always flicked the safety back on and tucked it back into the waistband of his shorts. That's why he would take another fifteen minutes coming up with another reason to stay alive for 24 more hours.

He watched the sun come up over the horizon, the buildings seeming to come to life in the pink dawn. Then, flicking back on his iPod and pushing up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, he took back off down the strip, back to life and where he belonged.

Until tomorrow at least.


End file.
